here's my official dirtbag log from VZ, if you have nothing better to read it will get you fired up for blowing diesel soot out of your nose
Vuelta de Venezuela Logbook September 22 - October 6
The whole trip began as such trips begin. Home, on the sofa, on a lovely summer evening, enjoying the time with my lovely wife and a cold beer. Mention to her that one of my moronic bike associates had suggested a trip to “Venezuela or Argentina or some other place down there for some bike race. Or something”. Gesticulating with my beer I wondered aloud at who would have the time and money to go traipsing around South America racing a bicycle when there were so many important things to be done back stateside. To my surprise, my wife supported the idea of me wandering around some strange country racing a ten speed in short pants with a bunch of guys without normal jobs. She called it the chance of a lifetime. She had a point.
So began our trip to the Vuelta Venezuela, an 11 day, 1180 mile stage race. We assembled 6 riders from the western New York area from Team Buffalo, all decent category 1 and 2 riders, but riders with little experience in stage races longer than a weekend. We tried to learn some Spanish in the three weeks we had to prepare and bought lots of power snacks, spare tires and headed to the airport, both expectant and worried. After an extended search for a pencil and paper, I kept a diary of this experience.
ARRIVAL - Welcome to Caracas. The city is beautiful from the air, little lights and twisty streets winding up the hillsides from the ocean. Airport is crazy and we realize quickly that we are a long way from home. We step out of the airport at about midnight and get hit with a blast of the hot, sticky, filthy air. The taxis lined up in front of the airport are like none I've ever seen: 1972 Mavericks with Bondo on the fenders, Old Dodge Darts with bald re-cap tires, nasty old F-100 pickups with no headlights, all lined up to make a few Bolivars for a ride downtown. Someone is lying underneath his taxi pounding on the starter with a hammer. Another is drinking a beer on the hood. We don't speak Spanish and no one speaks English, so I'm still not sure why the guy in fatigues was yelling as he waved his AK-47, but I think maybe I went through the wrong door. Despite all the clamor and insanity, people are really nice and civil to each other and to us. We were to find this throughout our time in Venezuela. We meet our driver, Pantoh, with the federation bus and head into the darkness, still felling pretty chipper. He is a great man, big broad shoulders, flattened nose from his boxing days, always cracking a joke and a smile. He has the bus wired up with a tape deck and blasts happy music wherever we go. After almost wiping out a few drivers, it becomes apparent that driving here is without the rules we are accustomed to, especially the "right of way" thing. Pedestrians seem pretty low on the totem pole and red lights are more suggestion than law. We begin to climb up away from the sea. An hour later, we are still climbing. This hill has been a steady climb for 40 miles and we are streaming sweat at 1 am - the bus is pretty quiet at this point as we consider the implications for bicycle racing in such a hot and hilly place. The trucks coming downgrade are taking no chances, crawling at 10 mph in 1st gear, which must make for a long ride to the sea. At 2 in the morning, the roads are still alive with cars and trucks. Drivers stop for the night and rig a hammock on the side of the road. We have no idea where we are. At about 2.30 we arrive at the hotel in city X and hit the beds, full of questions but bone tired.
We get up too early and play charades for breakfast, which turns out to be pretty darn good. We slap back some coffee, which proves to be the best in the entire world. I decide to not drink any beer during this race but can't bear to give up this wonderful coffee and order another cup. I still don't know where we are or when the race starts. I decide to just relax and enjoy my vacation and walk around the streets and notice that people stop and stare as I pass. This is a new experience. Another team is staying at the hotel and they are eating breakfast in their biking clothes and shoes. Our team leader, Adam can speak some French as does the director of this other team and we work our way through the details, to wit: the first two stages have been canceled due to funding problems and we will start racing on Monday not Sunday and the day with the 30 mile climbs has been canceled. Gosh darn it all. We find we are in the town of Maracay. It is pouring rain and the director invites us to go for a ride in the middle of the afternoon. We wonder why his riders are dressed to go ride 7 hours early, but just chalk it up to some wacky local custom. Our afternoon ride is scarier than the tilt-a-whirl. We are following the locals, blasting through city congestion, traffic lights, the whole deal. Cars down here all get out of the way for us and yell encouragement, as the Venezuelans seem to really follow bicycle racing. We have a team car with a siren following us though the intersections. People are getting fired up for the Vuelta to start on Monday and we get treated like kings on the road, so different from home with the drivers throwing bottles and screaming for us to get off the road.
STAGE 1 - Circuit race, Maracay, 85 miles, on a 5K U-turn circuit. Race starts at 3pm, about 105 degrees in the shade, maybe 50,000 spectators line the course. Radio, television, newspapers, the whole deal. We attract lots of attention as the only gringos in the race. We seem to be mistaken for the US national team, but that won't last too long after gun goes off. The pace is brutal right from the gun. One of the Todds comes flying backward through the pack after about 1K, later find that he was hit in the face with a rock thrown by some youthful race fan. The U-turns are real slow, then we go ballistic again. After a few laps, the course gets changed and we go about a half mile further down the road. Drinking water at the usual rate and feeling good. After 1 hour, I am starting to feel a bit low. The crowd is huge and yelling for us every inch of the way. We have never experienced racing in front of a crowd and it is electric. At the 2 hour mark I am getting cramps and chills, realizing too late that the old bottle-an-hour rule doesn't apply down here. Hang on at the back until the last lap then drop off and lose a few minutes. Overall, our team does OK, suffering one flat and one rider lapped, but generally doing a decent job chasing down breakaways and trying to initiate some breaks. People come out of the crowd and do lots of backslapping and we pose for people's pictures. Had we brought our crystal ball in our carry on bags, we would have just sat in the back of the pack and eaten sandwiches. I am pretty shook up from going off the back and head back to the hotel and drink 2 gallons of water and sulk about getting dropped on the first by gosh day.
STAGE 2 - Road Race - Point to point 105 mi, really hot. I start the day with 4 water bottles, taking no chances. I am on the drink every 5 minutes program. I am frankly terrified of blowing up in the heat as I have never raced in such high temperatures. Pace is easy for the first 10 seconds, then winds right up to 28 MPH. We go through little towns with narrow streets with trucks, busses and vending carts littering the course. We crash reliably in each town. I drop back twice in the first 25 miles to pace teammates back up after crashes, which gets old in a hurry. I miss a pileup but some guy's wheel bounces up and breaks a spoke in my front wheel. The wheel is wobbling like crazy, but I decide I can live with that. I avoid the next crash by taking to the sidewalk, almost picking off a woman with a bag of groceries. One of the Todds hits a huge chunk of wood and crashes hard, breaking a Spinergy wheel for his third crash of the day. We hang out at the back of the pack and wait for some news from the caravan. After a long while, the team car comes up and tells us to drop back, waaaaaay back, and pace Todd back up. We drop back through the caravan, back though the old Malibus, Monte Carlos, Mavericks and smoke belching Mercury Monclairs. Still no sign of Todd. We drop back through the passenger cars stuck behind the race and finally find Todd, jersey in shreds, brake lever in two pieces handlebars all crooked. I am feeling some doubt that we will ever make it back to the pack again, but we start to ride a paceline and grab a filthy, smoky draft off the back of each of the caravan vehicles. After about 20 minutes the pack is in sight. The drivers in the caravan are yelling encouragement. The radio commentator declares that the gringos are riding like professionals. The next day, the newspaper said "Todd Scheske brushed himself off, got back on his steel horse and caught the pack" right on the front page. WOW. We pass an old Bronco just as its radiator explodes. The roads are horrific, filled with craters, speed bumps, concrete ditches and open manholes dropping 6 feet down into who knows what. We pass 100 miles in 3:51, ouch. In setting up for the field sprint I move up to the front with Adam on my wheel, stand up to start the windup from 200 to give Adam a leadout. My rear wheel crumples and I pop out of my pedals, landing on the top tube, then getting back going to cross the line in about 40th. place. My wheel looks like a potato chip. As soon as we stop, a crowd of 200 gathers to stare at the gringos. Todd looks like he fell in a meat shredder and the doctor cleans his wounds while the crowd watches. Get 2 wheels build that night for 5 dollars in labor.
STAGE 3 - Circuit - 80 miles, 5 mile loop. Nice circuit, a little hill, some actual shade, not too many potholes. At about half way, a break goes off and gains 2 minutes. We send the entire team to the front for three laps, gradually pulling the break back into sight. The radio commentator bellows "A wall of gringos is at the front of the pack!" The race ends in a field sprint, I get 12th. Average speed is still high at 28mph. It has to slow down tomorrow, we all declare.
STAGE 4 - Road Race 100 mi - 3 climbs, uphill finish. Hot as anything. We assume people will be tired by this point. Assumption proves to be wrong. After all the crashes in the last road race, we are keeping a wary eye on our fellow riders, who seem to be very strong, but have an affinity for sliding down the tarmac. Roads are awful. Pass lots of guys in green with AK-47's, they wave and say hi to the gringos. We toss one a pack of cookies. Climbs are shallow but real fast, big-ring 25 MPH right into the sun, egads where is the top of this thing. A break goes at 50 miles with Adam in it. We head to the front and block for 20 miles, which still feels like work. At one point, a press truck side swipes a rider, he doesn't get up too quickly. The whole pack slows down to 5 MPH and starts yelling at the driver. We take the chance to head back for a few jillion water bottles. Pace cranks back up and we have a rider way back in the caravan with water bottles stuffed in every pocket. We haul him back up and sit in the back and drink and avoid crashes. We pass a huge truck labeled "Inflammable" lying on it's side in the ditch. The driver is drinking a beer with the police. The race has 2 long hot climbs at the end. The break gets caught at the base of the second climb and Adam sprints for the KOM sign, thinking it is the finish. Hills and flat tires prove to be the undoing of our team today, with Adam and I finishing 5 minutes off the main pack, which proves to be our best finish for the day. Adam seems to have heat stroke at the finish. He is just lying on the ground breathing real fast, kind of passed out. Later, on the bus ride back home he starts making wisecracks, so we assume he is feeling better.
STAGE 5 - 80 miles - U-turn course - hot as blazes. After so much hard racing, we have to slow down today. Kind of a dumb course, down the boulevard, U-turn, back up again. We assume this will be a milk run with a field sprint at the end. Pace is easy for first 3 seconds, then first 20 miles wind up to 30 MPH. We are laughing that this can't go on. We are single file, just hammering for the fifth day in a row. A breakaway of 7 forms and gets two minutes. We wave as they pass on the other side of the boulevard. The break stays away for a change and takes a minute out of the pack. In the field sprint, we go 19,20,21 st.
STAGE 6A - Pretty strange outing today. Drive to another town, name of which is forgotten. Whole town is built of cinder blocks and corrugated metal. On the sides of the roads are 6 foot deep concrete ditches with black glop flowing at the bottom. Every 10 feet, a concrete walkway crossed the ditches at about head height. Pretty much a bike racer's nightmare, lots of things to make one crash and lots of fixed objects to smash into. In America, we pad all the dangerous things with hay bales, but this course would require many, many truckloads of hay bales and none seem to be forthcoming. We assume we'll be racing on the nice, safe streets in some other part of town. As we drive into town, people are patching potholes with mortar half an hour before the start. The entire town turns out for the race - maybe 40 thousand people line the course, people are packed 10 deep on the finishing climb. They are going wild just watching us eat cookies before the start.
First lap is neutral behind the motor cycles. The course is a horror show: tight narrow roads, ditches everywhere, holes, rocks and auto parts litter the streets, we cross a huge sheet metal plate and plow into a deep compression bump at the bottom of a fast descent. We are laughing at the thought of racing on this thing. The race is supposed to start on the second lap but the pack continues to roll at about 10MPH, singing songs and waving to the crowd. At the conclusion of the second lap, the pack stops and just walks away, refusing to race on the course. The crowd waits. The sun rises higher. The organizers call a 45 minute delay and come up with another course. We head for the shade and give Oreo cookies to the local kids.
6B - the new course is really quite nice, some fast downhills, a long uphill finish, lots of cheering crowds. We lose one of the Todds to a dog on the course - he ends up taking out across someone's lawn then re-entering the race and getting lapped. After a few laps the course gets changed again. Chris snaps his stem bolt and rides the whole race with his handlebars unbolted, just swinging in the breeze. With one lap to go, he hits a dog and catapults into the crowd, his fall broken by a family of four out for a safe outing. They carry him to his bike and set him back on it, while others push him down the road screaming "Vuelta" at the top of their lungs. The crowd hoists a beer to the fallen gringo and the race goes on. We have 4 riders left for the sprint, Adam takes 11th, I get 22nd, we put the rest in the top 40. Later we find that we have lost one of the Todds due to the 15% time cut. No amount of negotiation helps and he heads home the next day. We are now a team of 5. To make matters worse, our director decides to head back home, leaving us without a director or a Spanish speaker for the last week of the race. Wishing for a beer at this point.
Stage 7 - Circuit Race, San Carlos, 75 miles, U-Turns. I tell my daily joke at 6am: "I think it's going to stay kind of cool and cloudy like this today" We have covered over 500 miles at over 26 MPH, so we figure everyone is getting tired by this point. These guys are riding these junky old bikes and just killing us every single day. They are so amazingly strong and gifted as riders. I have more fat on my nose than they have on their whole bodies. The heat is unrelenting and we are ordering two full lunches and dinners in addition to killing half gallons of water at each meal.
Nasty course today - an "up the hill, down the hill" design. Attack follows attack and the pace is turgid as usual. Kind of a dull race, all considered, all the pain is on the one climb, then the pack goes single file down the hill and clumps up at the bottom. Adam and I get in a break with 10 strong riders, but they just look at each other and decide not to work. Darn it. Get caught at the base of the climb, ouch. Adam flats, his brother Chris hands him the wheel off his bike and I drop back to pace Adam back up, double ouch. Our car is way back in the Caravan and Chris has no chance of getting back, so he rides alone, but gets lots of cheering from the crowd. We catch the breakaway 50 meters from the finish line, Adam gets 14th. and I get 18th. Our designs on a stage win or top 10 are still just a few yards out of reach.
REST DAY - We are at the Hotel El Touristo in the middle of nowhere. Watch some motorcycle racing on TV, go for a nice ride and generally goof off. Next 2 days look tough with 2 long road races back to back. The second race has an 11 am start putting us squarely in the afternoon heat and reducing our afternoon recovery and loafing time. We go down to the disco at the hotel, it is hopping at 4pm on a Monday. Go figure. The bouncer has a sawed off shotgun. We try to order soda pops and end up with gin and tonics. Lots of guys are stopping by to dance with the prostitutes before they get to work and it seems like a good time for all. We are tired right to the bone. Get some coffee and head back to the room for more air conditioning and T.V without sound.
STAGE 8 - 105 miles - Valencia Get up at 5 for a 3 hour drive to the start. Stop en route at a sort of roadside food court. We eat in a big room with the front wall open to the highway. The diesel smoke rolls in with each passing truck. I don't think this establishment would get the USDA seal of approval. Some of the other teams are eating fish head stew, eyeballs and all. Their breakfast is looking right at them. We eat cornflakes. I get stuck in the bathroom, but get extracted in time for the race.
The course goes for 50 feet then turns left. The first attack goes in the middle of this left turn. I count over a dozen attacks during the first 10 miles. We hang in the back of the pack and try to avoid the potholes and hunks of lumber in the road. We have the usual raft of flats and mishaps but reach the climb at 50 miles with our team intact. This is a very steep, short climb up a dirt and concrete road, maybe about 2 miles in length. Adam is in a break at this point, but flats on the descent. Todd hands over his wheel and Chris stops to help pace Adam back up. Meanwhile, I start down the switchbacks after the climb, assuming that my superior downhilling skills will seize the day. I pass people right and left, come around a blind turn to see a river of mud flowing across the road. I stack it at about 35 MPH and take down another, more prudent rider. Get back up and start chasing, bleeding and filthy. Spend next 10 miles in a group with Chris and Adam, finally regaining the pack. Jim, Chris and Todd end up off the back after getting flats at inopportune times. It starts to rain, I feel skeeved out about having open sores in all the road filth. Things get dull in the pack, so one rider decides to liven things up with a crash into the sugar canes on the side of the road, plowing a 7 foot furlough and finally coming to rest in the gook. He is back in the pack after a while with plants hanging from his derailer. Race gets hilly at the end, we finish somewhere in the 30's. Eat lunch in our sweaty clothes and head for the hotel. We find one bed per room for three riders and smut movies blasting on the TV. We find out that we have to drive 5 hours through the mountains to get to the next morning's race. We decide to skip showers and dinner and get the bus ride out of the way. Bus ride is a trip - the road is narrow and climbs through a jungle. We have the fiesta music blasting, passing truck so close we can touch them. No food for dinner, so we eat sacks of cookies and crackers and try to sleep on the hammock. I figure we are going to die about a zillion times on some of the blind hills. We stop to help a trucker who launched it into the ditch, so he gives us a few dozen rolls of toilet paper, a key gift in Venezuela. Roll into town at 1 am and have some dinner at the bus station. Try to eat but gag reflex won't allow it. Spaghetti seems to have been cooked in rancid mop water. Looking around the table, the other gringos are also stricken. I hate to refuse food and be rude, but Adam is turning white as a ghost with his fork halfway to his mouth. Throw a napkin over the offending meal and pat my belly like I'm too full for another bite. No rooms at the hotel, so we drive around looking for another, with no luck. Sleep 4 hours on the ground on someone's front porch, swatting bugs and sweating from every pore, but soothed to listed to the waves crashing so close. Breakfast at the bus station.
Stage 9 - 120 miles - Valencia to Cua. Hot and humid beyond description. Feel like dirt from no sleep and rotten food. Our team is grumpy right from the start. Race is supposed to have a major climb at 60 mile mark. Course is changed after the start and the climb is at the 4 mile mark. Go off the back at this point. Catch back up and the whole pack starts clapping and hooting. We pull onto the highway via the on-ramp and ride 4 hours on the interstate. Team mate gets blisters on the bottom of his feet from the heat coming off the road. We are just riding down an interstate highway, which is a unique experience. A break forms on the off-ramp and gets about 1 minute up. Jim and Todd do a nice leadout, Chris and I get caught in traffic but finish about 20th, Adam is somewhere in the low teens. A decent outing after an awful night.
We are staying in the middle of nowhere in an oil company town. We sleep in bunk beds, but no pillows or towels. We use bed sheets for towels and head to the dining hall for a late dinner. We all fall asleep at the table, I'm dreaming and twitching when the food arrives.
STAGE 10 - Circuit race - 85 miles. Pace finally starts to back down. One team has gained control of the yellow leader's jersey and the green sprinter's jersey. They are controlling the race now, just keeping the pace at about 25 MPH and chasing down the countless little attacks.
Adam gets into what looks like the winning break with 5 other riders. On the final lap, he misses the winning attack and sits up in the sprint, disgusted with himself, but assuming he was going to coast across in the top 5. Had he looked, he would have seen the 100 riders closing in 10 feet to his rear. He gets swarmed 30 feet from the line and finished 25th. I buy him an ice cream, but he is as mad as I've ever seen him. He gets to go to urine testing tent, an added bonus.
STAGE 11 - Road Race 120 miles - Hot and flat, ending in the desert.
The roads are horrid beyond description. At some points there is no road, just craters. I see 6 riders get flat tires at the same time. I crash at the 3 miles mark, one of those slow motion,
can't avoid the pile up kinds of crashes. Fall is broken by the two water bottles in my jersey which burst, drenching me with Gatorade. Awful roads, we declare a DEFCON 1 level alert and hang off the back to avoid trouble. Many crashes and many flats. A rider stacks it in front of me and lands right at my front wheel. I go over the bars and come down hard. My front wheel is shot and I'm not feeling too good. Get a new wheel and start to chase back up, but shoulder doesn't feel right. Todd and Chris drop back to help, I motion them to go back, as I'm not feeling good at all. I ride for a mile or so, but I'm to bungled up to continue, so I pull off the road and wait for the bus. After all this racing, the choice isn't as painful as I might have expected. I get off and wave for our man Pantoh in the bus. Doctor Richard pulls up in the ambulance and races out with his medic kit (2 bottles of water and some tape) I tell him my shoulder is broken, so he springs into action: unzips my jersey, sprays Ben-gay on the shoulder and zips it back up. I start to walk toward the ambulance and he says "I would prefer if you rode on the bus" then he gets in the ambulance and takes off. The officials take my numbers and I am out of the race. I end up at this scuzhole clinic in east nowhere and all the townspeople keep wandering into my room to check me out - maybe 30 people come shuffling in to look at the big gringo in the shredded lycra. Get an X-ray and find a broken collar bone. Take a taxi back to the caravan and spend the rest of the day handing bottles out of the bus to Todd and Chris who ride the last 80 miles alone, finishing 20 minutes back, which turns out to be a great ride. Get to have a beer tonight after a trip to the clinic. Everyone at the clinic wants to see all my scrapes and the nurses kind of overdo the wound dressing and cleaning, but things were kind of slow, I guess.
Stage 12 - Time trial - 35K - point to point, mostly uphill Just a time trial, nothing going on here. The radio announcers make even the time trial out to be high drama.
STAGE 13 - Circuit - 75MI - This was supposed to be a blow off race, last day and all. It is a blow off for me, walking around in a sling on the sidelines. For the riders, a sinister twist has been added, a 2000 Bolivar (4 bucks) prime for each lap. Riders will sprint for dental floss down here and the 4 dollar primes will keep the pace fast, no doubt. I wander around like this big wounded celebrity, people want to take my picture and see all my scabs. I buy the officials popcicles and the pack goes through the finish with all these serious looking UCI types eating Tio Rico treats. A break gets established then caught in the last 3 K's. All our riders are off the back after crashes and flats. A nasty crash in the last 1000M takes out the mid section of the pack. Pandemonium ensues. The race is over and the crowd swarms around the victors, the gringos and all the others. I raise a toast to my team mates who finished this event.
In the end we packed up and went back to our lives back in the United States. For all of us, in looking back, this was one of the defining moments in our amateur cycling careers. For all of us who have worked to be decent at the sport, but never at the top level, this was a taste of what the professional stage racers must experience. When the memories of the grimy places fades away, we were left with but the sweetest memories of a great two weeks of racing in the sun with our South American friends.